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“Fucking shit.”
Not his most eloquent statement, though Jim thought he deserved a little leeway when someone knocked on his door at 2:00am, after a twelve hour shift involving three robberies, an escape from the bullpen, a run-in with Cat, two slips on Gotham’s icy streets (his knees were still smarting from the second fall, his wrist from the first), and a visit from Alfred that told Jim he’d done something truly uncalled for this time... though what the hell it was, he couldn’t say. Honestly, all he’d hoped for was a beer and at least six hours of decent sleep. Not this.
“Cobblepot,” Jim growled.
It came out more intimidating than he’d intended, his voice overly rough from the endless cold and too short nights. Intent or no though, Oswald flinched backwards into the hallway’s wallpaper, looking like he was trying to camouflage himself there. His movements caused a wet squelch to sound and—jesus—a small collection of slush to fall out of his pant-leg. It joined the growing puddle Oswald was leaving on the floor.
“J-Jim, old friend...” he said, or at least tried to. Oswald’s teeth were chattering so badly that for one moment Jim thought he might actually bite into his tongue. He waited for the flare of satisfaction that should accompany that image—Oswald’s silver tongue laid low—but it didn’t come and Jim was left with a pit of horror growing in his chest as he took stock of his appearance.
Oswald looked, in layman’s terms, like absolute crap. The finely pressed suit was drenched lapels to cuffs, implying that somehow he hadn’t just been caught out in the snow, but had been fucking rolling in it. His hair was plastered to his head and still dotted with individual flakes—except for a tuff in the back that seemed to be sticking up purely out of spite. There was a jagged cut along his left cheek. There might have been others, though honestly Oswald’s face was so red with cold that Jim couldn’t tell. He was leaning heavily against the wall for support and whatever coat or gloves he’d had to help protect him were long gone. The only thing Oswald had left with him was his umbrella... which was completely useless as a cane given that it had been snapped in two. He clutched the point end against his thigh a little desperately. His other hand was hidden in his jacket, cradled carefully against his chest.
This wasn’t the soon to be, self-proclaimed King of Gotham. More than anything else the man standing before him resembled a puppy someone had tried and failed to drown.
… Which actually wasn’t too far off the mark, given their history.
Jim took all this in with the speed of a good cop and was striding forward just a second later. Oswald backed up another step and Jim reassured himself that it was a natural reaction, in no way aimed at him personally.
Why he gave a damn about what Oswald Cobblepot thought of him personally... Jim was going to ignore that line of thought entirely.
“C’mon,” he said and practically dragged the other man inside, Oswald’s legs scrambling like a newborn deer’s across the floor. He only did it so no one saw the goddamn Penguin shivering on his doorstep, creating a puddle that was steadily inching towards Mrs. Brady’s door. Jim shut his own fast before the old woman could notice and start screeching.
“T-thank you...”
That seemed to be all Oswald was willing to say. Or able. He just stood there, hovering in the middle of the room and dripping onto the already ruined floor. Once the door shut Jim felt a wave of claustrophobia rush over him. What was he supposed to do now? It occurred to him that Oswald wasn’t making himself at home in Jim’s crap apartment, or rushing to play the perfect guest, or even hesitantly asking for more assistance than he’d already been granted... he just stood, perfectly still except for the shivers running up and down his spine. It was a horribly passive image.
He seemed to be waiting for Jim to take control of the situation, and that more than anything told him something had gone horribly wrong tonight.
“Alright,” Jim said. It was an announcement more for himself than Oswald. He scrubbed a hand down his face, feeling the grit in his eyes and the stubble forming on his chin. “Alright.”
He didn’t have much of plan, but Jim knew he should get Oswald into the bathroom where he could drip in peace. Yet the second he took his wrist—not the ruined suit, but actual skin this time—Jim let out a gasp that echoed in the too-quiet apartment. Oswald wasn’t just cold, he felt dead beneath Jim’s fingers. The sensation of his own air-temperature hand must have felt like a searing brand to Oswald who, yes, let out a similar gasp in turn.
“Move,” Jim hissed and all sense of awkwardness was gone.
He’d learned about hypothermia in his unit, of course. It was one of those tidbits of information you kept churning in the back of your mind at all times: Don’t get separated. Don’t get shot. (“No duh,” another soldier had whispered and had promptly been dressed down for it, severely.) Don’t attract attention through light. Don’t chug your water. Don’t, don’t, don’t. And don’t let your buddies freeze at night either.
So Jim let the familiar thrum of adrenaline wash over him and he focused it all on Oswald, not as a dangerous acquaintance, but as merely a body, one that needed to get warm now. Jim dragged him into the bathroom, stopping only to grab a throw off the bed and crank the old thermostat as high as it would go. From there he deftly pulled layer after layer away to reveal cold, clammy skin, pale as a sickly child’s. There was a moment, while unbuttoning the vest so quick that one button flew off and pinged in the sink, that a single, trembling hand tried to stop him—and Jim simply shoved it away. He heard choked, rasping breaths, a whisper that might have been his name... but for the most part Jim was only aware of the rushing in his ears. He certainly missed the awed look that the body was giving him.
Jacket, vest, shirt, undershirt, all of it was tossed into the corner with sickening, wet plops. Jim maneuvered the body onto the closed toiled seat, some part of him remembering to keep a firm hold on each arm to help it keep balance, completely ignoring how those arms seeped ice into his own veins. The pants went next, as did the pair of silk, purple boxers. Jim got a glimpse of caved, mangled scar tissue on one leg before he was dropping to his knees, taking each foot carefully in hand to try and remove the soaked shoes, then the socks. He was struggling with the laces on the left shoe though—thinking about just getting his pocket knife to slice them—when a word finally permeated the fog he’d fallen into.
“Jim.”
Her jerked, then settled, one hand lightly gripping Oswald’s (Oswald’s) bony ankle.
When his voice came again it was a little stronger around the chattering.
“As much of an h-honor as it is to have you kn-kneeling at my feet, Jim, would you perhaps...?” and one pale hand gestured to the blanket he’d piled on the floor.
Right. Because Oswald was naked. Directly above him. Jim could feel blood rushing up his neck and into his cheeks, acting like markers of a sin he hadn’t even committed. He swung his eyes to the ceiling and kept them there until he found the blanket and had thrown it over Oswald’s shoulders. The bright red wool looked obscene next to the mess of pale limbs and black hair. Jim caught a few other colors as well, the blues and purples of recent bruises, the green of those that were fading, blue veins snaking around Oswald’s hairless chest... and a red, much darker, that he tried to hide beneath the blanket. He was too slow.
“Fuck,” Jim whispered.
It felt like his vocabulary had been reduced to obscenities tonight. The red splash came from Oswald’s right hand, nearly indistinguishable as such given how mangled it was. It looked like he’d played chicken with a blender and lost, and though Jim knew that a lot of it was just the fresh blood making things look worse, it still wasn’t a pretty sight.
“Not nearly as bad as it s-seems,” Oswald said, as if reading his mind. He mustered up a wane smile.
Why stop the trend? “Bullshit.” Jim pointed sharply to the blanket currently holding Oswald together. “Use the edge. Stop the bleeding.”
“I’m not going to use—!”
“Do it.”
Maybe there was something in Jim’s tone that convinced him, or maybe Oswald was just too tired to put up a real fight. Either way, Jim heard the sharp hiss of pain as he turned to start up the bath. He was extra careful in deciding on the temperature—warm enough to do some good, not hot enough to harm—and the rush of water was a welcome sound between them. Still, Jim tried to keep his mind as blank as possible while he stared at the tile. All he ended up thinking about was how Barbara had given him that throw when he’d moved out and now there were no doubt stains all along one corner. Well, it would make for an interesting conversation starter if she ever decided to visit.
The image very nearly made Jim laugh.
“I need to sleep,” he muttered, automatically shushing Oswald when he made a distressed sound at that announcement. In fact, Jim ignored him entirely, leaving the tub to fill and hurrying back to the kitchen.
He didn’t have much in the way of actual food, but there was enough ice (well, frozen peas) to help with the swelling. Jim snagged his first aid kit on the way back—in a place of honor and practicality on his kitchen counter—and a pair of old sweats as well, the pants soft in the knees and the sweatshirt logo peeling. He very much did not think about Oswald wearing his clothes.
Just focus. Keep the unit safe.
By the time he came back the tub was nearly full and Jim turned it off, throwing everything else in a pile next to Oswald. Jim wasn’t looking at his face, but somehow staring at his bare feet was even worse. Oswald had crossed one foot over the other, toes curled like he was nervous.
Jim grit his teeth and turned. “Alright. Let me see it.”
When Oswald gave Jim his hand it was in the style of a 19th century lady: presented palm down and delicately, like he expected Jim to kiss it. Of course, that was because his wrist was broken, supported only by Oswald’s other hand and sheer determination not to show any pain. Jim took the abused appendage as carefully as possible, yet he still elicited a hiss from Oswald’s clenched teeth. It took him all of a second to feel other fractures in the hand itself. Oswald’s pinkie was unnaturally crooked.
Jim found he was just staring until another violent shiver knocked him back to sense. Right. Priorities. He looked up, finding Oswald staring at him with an unreadable expression, and Jim jutted his chin at the tub for lack of anything better to say.
“Get in, before it gets cold. Keep your hand out and the ice pack on.”
“You mean the peas?”
“Just get in.”
“You seem to quite fond of ordering me around tonight—”
Oswald cut himself off though as Jim hauled him to his feet, letting out a breathy gasp as his already shaking legs took weight again, despite how much he was leaning on Jim. The blanket slipped away and for just a moment both of them froze, a thread of embarrassment tying them together. Then it passed, Jim steadying Oswald with all the perfunctory of a trained nurse.
“Going to have to start charging you,” he muttered.
Briefly, Oswald’s expression fell. Behind the cold and the pain was something—some stupid hope—that all this was out of more than just a sense of general, moral duty. That is was more than the righteously impersonal. Then it was gone though and that familiar mask of professionalism had taken its place.
“Of course, old friend. It is terribly rude of me to keep imposing on you l-like this. You kn-know I’m more than happy to compensate—”
Jim shook him, just once by the bicep. “Don’t insult me on top of everything else.”
“...oh. Oh, of course.”
Oswald’s lips trembled, but they also smiled. Just a little.
It turned into another ordeal getting him into the tub. Oswald hissed the moment his foot touched the water, his body not quite believing Jim when he said that no, of course it’s not scalding, that’s just your temperature out of whack, do you trust me or not? When he did finally settle—leftover bubble bath from Barbara providing a veneer of privacy, his hand carefully balanced on the rim—Oswald let out a sigh that told Jim the water was doing its work. Tiny ripples flowed as he continued to shiver, but they were getting smaller.
Jim sat down on the grimy mat. He was oddly unwilling to move. All at once he felt exhausted, even more than he had before, with Oswald just a foot of porcelain away and the heavy knowledge that he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon weighing him down.
“Going out on a limb here and guessing you won’t see a doctor for this?” Jim had pulled first aid kit forward, starting to clean up the lacerations at least.
Oswald pursed his lips. It could have been in pain or disgust. “No,” he said shortly.
“It won’t heal right.”
Neither of them had to look at his leg.
“I have the funds now to procure... other means of assistance.”
Black market surgeons then. Wonderful. Still, if Jim knew anything he knew that Oswald was both crafty and careful. Whoever he found after this was sure to be the best that Gotham’s underbelly had to offer.
“… Use any of the stuff there you want,” Jim said in lieu of a blessing and went back to trying to make Oswald’s hand look like a hand again and not a slab of ground meat.
He took Jim up on the offer. Hesitantly, careful not to move too much, Oswald used his left hand to procure a washcloth and shower gel. He didn’t ask Jim if the cloth was his. Jim didn’t say he could take more than just that tiny dollop of body wash. The only sounds were the sighs of satisfaction as Oswald gently cleaned away the night’s horrors.
He only stopped at his hair, lifting one lanky strand from his forehead before letting it fall. At Jim’s look Oswald shrugged. “A little hard to wash your hair one handed,” he said, dismissive.
Later, Jim would lay on the couch and wonder just what the hell had come over him then. Battling hypothermia and infection were one thing—he could chock those up to duty in the back of his mind, no matter what he told Oswald—but this? It hadn’t been an invitation. Oswald had never even hoped for such a thing, that much was clear. It was entirely Jim’s decision... and thus all the more strange.
It didn’t feel strange though, not when he moved closer and gently lifted up Oswald’s head, using one hand to scoop warm water over his crown. Oh, Jim heard the gasp Oswald muffled, could easily see how his whole body froze, like a cornered animal just waiting for the attack. Jim relaxed though... and eventually Oswald did too.
“Easy,” was all he said.
His hair was softer than Jim would have guessed. It always looked greasy, though maybe that was just a trick of Gotham’s cloudy light. As he worked the water through Jim realized that the style was actually decent, that Oswald must work each morning with gel and patience to craft his odd bangs and plumage, mimicking the bird everyone insisted he was. Not now though. Jim smirked, realizing that when it dried his hair was going to spout in soft, adorable tufts.
... so yes. He could stay long enough for it to dry.
The shampoo was Barbara’s too. Jim wasn’t sure how so many of her toiletries had ended up with his things, but he wasn’t complaining. He’d enjoyed using them too much, keeping her scent with him even in the rankest corners he was forced to explore each day. Jim had been rationing it... though now he used a generous amount, lathering to get the snow and blood out of Oswald’s hair, leaving that minty smell in his wake. He tried to mimic the movements the women used in the fancy salons and he must have done something right because Oswald positively whimpered, sliding lower into the water and arching up into Jim’s hands. He was vulnerable in every possible way, his neck literally bared, and Jim found his fingers tightening compulsively around the strands.
“You going to tell me what happened?” he murmured.
He only got a groan in response.
“Oswald.”
Slowly, slits of blue peered up at Jim. “Nothing you need concern yourself with. No,” Oswald’s good hand shot up to stall him. “I mean that. It was merely a disagreement between me and a potential associate.” His eyes clouded over in pain.
Jim’s gaze slid to the mess of red on the tub’s rim. “Disagreement?”
“It is one way of putting it, I assure you. He didn’t take kindly to the partnership I offered him... even less so to the handshake I extended when things went south. Decided to... make his feelings quite clear using my umbrella...” Oswald trailed off.
“And his boot,” Jim finished, thinking of all the Gotham sludge he’d just cleaned out of the wounds. He felt Oswald nod.
That was enough then. Clearly this guy had wanted to send a message—and he’d succeeded. Either Oswald had the resources to retaliate and had already done so, or he’d find some in the near future. Either way he’d be two, three steps ahead of Jim, who didn’t even have a name to go on... and really, did he want to find this guy?
Jim stared at Oswald’s shoulders, still shaking beneath the water. No. Not for police protection anyway.
Things moved quickly after that. The water was cooling as Jim did his best to rinse Oswald’s hair, stupidly concerned about keeping any soap from leaking into his eyes. He helped Oswald stand again, dress him in his clothes, and led him back to his bed for the night, all the while insisting to himself that this wasn’t nearly as intimate as it felt; merely practical.
It was only when Oswald was seated on the bed that the night’s events hit Jim with enough force that he very nearly ran from the room.
Instead, a chilled hand shot out to grab hold of Jim’s wrist. Thin, flighty fingers pressed hard against his pulse point. Jim’s blood rushed in his ears again and this time it was loud, so damn loud that he almost didn’t catch what Oswald said.
“You’re good to me,” were his words, sounding as shocked by it as Jim felt. “So patient. I honestly don’t know how to thank you, dear friend… though I’m sorry to say that I am, at my core, irrevocably selfish. Mother always said I strived for more than I had, endlessly...” Oswald let out a chuckle that rocked with nerves. “Please feel free to blame this on the hypothermia.”
“What—?”
But Oswald had already risen up, using Jim’s wrist as leverage to collide against his chest and press his lips to Jim’s. The kiss was, of course, freezing, but Jim also caught sensations that weren’t cold at all: like the rough texture of Oswald’s lips, their thinness, his breath—surprisingly clean given the day he’d had—and how everything opened for just a moment, like Oswald had briefly dared to want more before finally pulling back.
There was no punch thrown in the quiet that followed Oswald let out a full, disbelieving breath.
“Thank you,” he said. “That’s... thank you.”
Oswald then slid gratefully beneath the covers, his back to Jim, using an old towel to keep his hand from staining the bed. Jim moved entirely on autopilot, needing now more than ever to sleep. He turned out the lights and pulled the door shut behind him—although he did stop right before it closed completely.
“Could have been worse. A lot of people develop delirium,” and then he shut the door before Oswald could answer, the loud click sounding between them.
It wasn’t an admission—not a full rejection of the excuse Oswald had offered him—but it was something and it was the most Jim could offer for now.
***
Oswald was gone the next morning, somehow managing to sneak past Jim on the couch well before dawn. He wasn’t surprised. Rats could be silent when they chose to.
He thought then that this would be one of those nights that just faded away; deliberately let go of until it seemed no more real than a dream. A part of Jim would have gladly let it become that if it weren’t for the box that showed up on his desk.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself a secret admirer,” Harvey said, gesturing to the gift with his donut and leaving powdered sugar in his wake. Jim was careful to roll his eyes and make a show checking their paperwork first because really, the ‘admirer’ wasn’t so secret.
When Harvey finally went to the bathroom—thank you, third cup of coffee—Jim quickly tore off the lid and pulled back the tissue paper. Beneath it all there was a cashmere throw in deep red. It had fringe, cables, and was easily the most expensive thing Jim now owned. Sitting on top of the blanket was a white card with just four words, no signature, written in a scraggly font like someone had been forced to use their non-dominant hand:
To keep you warm.
That night Jim replaced Barbara’s blanket with Oswald’s and yes… he was warm.